


Fruitful

by themuslimbarbie



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themuslimbarbie/pseuds/themuslimbarbie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates fruit. More than hates it, really; loathes it, absolutely despises it. He can't imagine why anyone would like them. So, of course, Amy loves fruit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruitful

  


**i. Sight**

He hates fruit. More than hates it, really; loathes it, absolutely despises it. It's awful; quite possibly the worst thing he's ever had. He hates the smell of it, the taste, the texture. It's too strong, too soft; too sweet, too bitter; too mushy, too crunchy. You can't trust it one bit. There's just something off about it. It's too sugary, too… _fruity_. Yes, fruity, that's the proper word. Fruit is simply too fruity. And it's absolutely foul.

Especially apples.

Apples are rubbish.

He hates apples.

It isn't only Earth fruit, though. Oh no, it's far more than that. It's all fruit – Earth fruit, Space fruit, past fruit, future fruit. He knows it all, he's had it all, and not a single one is worth a second taste. Yes, it wasn't always this way – some of his past selves adored fruit – but not him, not this time, not this Doctor. New mouth, new taste buds, new appetites and all of that stuff. Things change, he changes, and his food preferences with it. And this time, this Doctor, _hates_ fruit.

He wants nothing to do with them. He wants them nowhere close to his proximity. He doesn't so much as want to _see_ them. He assumes everyone feels the same, because, well, it's _fruit_ and fruit is foul. Awful, really. Complete rubbish. He can't imagine why anyone would like them.

So, of course, Amy loves fruit.

**ii. Smell**

She changes her nail polish every time they leave a place. It doesn't matter the year, galaxy, or race of inhabitants. There's no set pattern or method to her colour choice; she does it at whim. He doesn't understand it, but he doesn't really care. Let her have her polish and her colours and the such. It doesn't affect him; he hardly notices it, at all.

Or he wouldn't if she used normal colours. But Amy doesn't use regular colours. Oh no, of course she doesn't. It would be far too simple, far too easy, far too _convenient_ if she were to do that. And she can't have that. No, Amy doesn't paint her nails with normal colours. No, she uses special polish. Scented polish. And her favourite is the red one. Only it isn't actually red. No, no, not even close.

No, she paints her nails sensual _cherry_.

 _Scented_ sensual cherry.

He hates cherries.

"I don't care if you don't like the smell. I'm _not_ tossing it!"

He considers tossing it himself. He could do it while she sleeps. She is human, after all, and humans sleep a lot. And, even then, Amy's a particularly heavy sleeper. It wouldn't take very much effort. And he could blame it on the Space Ants. The ants are always stealing and hiding things. Beautiful, beautiful ants. And it doesn't matter that Space Ants don't live in this hemisphere of the universe. Amy won't know the difference. Yes, ants. Ants are good. Ants are the solution. He loves the ants.

"And don't even think of trying anything." She says, blowing her nails. "If I have to look at that ridiculous bowtie, you can handle a bit of nail polish."

"Bowties are cool." How can she even compare the two? Cherries are awful, foul, _disgusting_. Cherries are rubbish. Bowties are stylish, bowties are cool. They're nothing like cherries.

Humans. Sometimes they just don't make any sense.

Two weeks later, he finds half of a bottle of _sensual cherry_ scented nail polish sitting on the control panel of the TARDIS. He toys with it for a moment, contemplating, before unscrewing the cap. He can change his mind, after all. It's happened before. His senses are older now, more developed. For all he knows, it could be different now; it could be wonderful, marvellous, _delicious_. Yes, he decides, it will be different this time. He takes a whiff from the deliciously scented bottle.

He gags.

Nope, definitely still awful. Terrible, really. Might have gotten worse, actually.

The following day he tells her he hasn't seen her polish and has absolutely no idea where it could have possibly wandered off to. Perhaps it was the ants?

**iii. Hearing**

They see a Beatles concert. It isn't his first (not even close!), but it is Amy's first. Well, with the Beatles at least. He's assuming that she's been to concerts before. Then again, she did grow up in Leadworth and Leadworth is brain-numbingly dull. Really, there's absolutely nothing to do there. Well, there is a post, but it's always closed!

And he had a point in there somewhere…

Oh, right, the Beatles.

It is a magnificent concert, of course, they always are. He and Amy have a marvellous time, wonderful, really. Perhaps even a bit too wonderful. Because Amy has a beer. And then another. And then another. And then, the next thing he knows, the concert is over and he's left with a slightly giggly Amy, who is having a bit of a hard time walking.

And there's singing. Lots and lots of singing.

She doesn't sing well when she's _sober_ , mind you.

"I want all the world to see we've met. Cos I'm going down to strawberry fields."

He flinches slightly when she hits a note wrong. "They didn't even sing that song, Amy."

She shrugs and half-skips-half-stumbles into the TARDIS. "So? I _like_ that song." Her eyes widen and she grins. "I want strawberries."

"We don't have any." He makes sure that there is never fruit in the TARDIS. He hates fruit, after all.

"Then let's get some."

"Maybe later. Right now you should go to bed."

"I will _after_ I get my strawberries."

"We are not getting any."

She glares at him for a moment and, for a moment, he thinks she's going to scream at him. That giggly-happy-drunk Amy is going to transform into angry-murderous-drunk Amy. Which would be bad. Very, very bad, indeed. But she doesn't. She sighs and he thinks that's that. She'll go to bed, wake up hung-over, and he'll never have to hear about the blasted strawberries again.

"I'm going to strawberry fields!" She starts singing.

No, of course not. Amy can't make things easy for him, after all.

He stares at her for a moment. "That's not going to work."

"Nothing to get hung abooooout."

"I don't care how much you sing."

"Strawberry fields forever and ever!"

"That's not even how the song goes!"

"And ever and ever and ever!"

Twenty minutes later, the TARDIS lands in a small farm village and Amy skips out happily.

He really hates strawberries.

**iv. Touch**

They visit Arancelob, a small planet on the edge of the galaxy. The inhabitants are relatively friendly, peaceful people. They even resemble humans a bit. Well, except for the third eye and the purple skin. But those are minor details and they are a rather beautiful race.

Unfortunately, their food is not.

The Arancelobians are gatherers, farmers, vegetarians, and their diet consists mainly of fruits and vegetables. Mostly fruits, to be precise. Famous fruits, wondrous fruits. Fruits so magnificent that people travel from all over the universe to try them. Which is great, fantastic, amazing! Except for one tiny, miniscule, but rather important detail: he hates fruit.

"What's this?" Amy asks an Arancelobian seller, pointing to the largest section of her stand.

"That's a gallap, ma'am." She explains. "It's our planet's specialty."

"It looks a bit like an orange pomegranate."

"That's essentially what it is." He tells her.

"You've had them before?"

"Several times. They used to be a favourite of mine."

"Used to?"

He shrugs. "I regenerated. New mouth and all. I can't stand them now. I – "

"Hate fruit. Yeah, yeah, I know." She grabs a few of the seeds and a smirk tugs at her lips. "But you haven't actually tried it yet, have you? In this body, I mean."

"Well, no."

"So you could actually love them. They could be the exception to your _fruity_ problem." And before he can tell her that it doesn't actually work that way, she pops an orange seed into this mouth.

He spits it out the moment it touches his lips. "That's foul. I hate gallaps. Gallaps are rubbish."

"You didn't even taste it!"

"I didn't have to. The texture was all wrong."

"The texture?"

"Yes. It was too mushy and hard at the same time. It was all wrong."

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am. I'm always serious."

"You wear a bowtie."

"Bowties are cool. How's that relevant?" She has this odd habit of mentioning his bowtie at unnecessary times.

She rolls her eyes. "You really hate them that much?"

"Yes. Now can we please move on?"

And the next thing he knows, she's taking an entire basket full of gallaps back to the TARDIS.

**v. Taste**

It's Valentine's Day when they land in 3026 Space Italy. Or at least their version of Valentine's Day. Because it has the same name, but it's a bit more serious than the Earth holiday, you see. The Italians have always been rather serious about their romance.

There are celebrations and parades everywhere you look. It's a planet wide holiday and not a single person works, because it's a day of love and everyone spends the day with their beloveds. It's a bit much for Amy, who has never really been a romantic, but she still seems to enjoy it. She eats her Valentine's Day sweets, laughs, and watches the parade, with almost childlike excitement. And all goes well until, out of nowhere, everyone is staring at them.

He blinks, looks up and sees them on a giant telly screen showing a floating mistletoe above their heads. Which is not good. Worse than not good, actually. It's _extremely_ not good.

"Doctor, is that a mistletoe?"

"It seems to be."

"But I thought those were for Christmas?"

"Different times, different rules." He holds his hands up and shakes his head. "No, no. We aren't…"

They glare and he remembers that oh, right, it's a civil crime to not kiss under the mistletoe on this planet. Especially on Valentine's Day. One that could quite possibly be punished by death. The Italians always did take their romance too seriously.

"Listen, Amy, it seems we might have a – "

"Oh, would you shut up already?"

And the next thing he knows, her arms are around his neck and her lips are against his. Trust Amy to take control of a situation. And she's never been one to do things half way and, well, neither has he, so he kisses her back. The crowd cheers and she laughs when she pulls back. She winks at him before bowing to the crowd and waving to the camera.

Later, when they are back at the TARDIS, he realises the kiss had a sweet flavour to it, but with a hint of a sour tang. Fresh, but somehow soft. Almost like an apple, actually. She tastes a bit like apples. And he can't help it; he starts laughing, because of all the possible things in the universe, Amy Pond would taste like apples.

She can't possibly know what he's laughing about, but she joins him. "A gigantic Valentine's Day holiday? Well, I suppose it makes some sense, actually."

"Oh? Why's that?"

She smirks. "The Italians always did take their romance too seriously."

He laughs harder and pulls the lever that sends the TARDIS off. And as they fly through time and space, he can't help but think that maybe fruit isn't so awful after all. Or at least apples aren't.

Apples are his favourite, after all. 


End file.
